


i burned 'i love you' into your skin

by queenmcgonagall



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, dont judge too hard pls, i was still an infant fic writer when i wrote this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 12:51:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenmcgonagall/pseuds/queenmcgonagall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis is caught in a web of lies after lying to protect his and Harry’s relationship, but Harry doesn’t appreciate what Louis is sacrificing and they have a falling out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i burned 'i love you' into your skin

It’s not that he hates her, really. He doesn’t hate her stifling flowery perfume that clings to Louis’s shirt when Harry is intent on filling his mind with the scent of Louis. He doesn’t hate the sound of her ringtone on Louis’s phone, interrupting a private moment between him and Louis. He doesn’t hate her voice, piercing, as she rounds the corner, as Louis takes his hands away from where they’ve been tracing Harry’s ribs under his shirt.

And he definitely doesn’t hate how he’ll do something as simple as touch Louis’s shoulder as they get on the tour bus and then the next day, words are thrown around like ‘irresponsible’ and ‘duty’ and then ‘Eleanor’, ‘flight’, and the worst is ‘behave’. Behave like what, Harry always asks, a blank expression on his face. They say don’t look at Louis like that. How is he supposed to control that?

He can’t help that when his eyes land on Louis’s face, all he wants to do is stare forever at his pink-tinged cheeks and make him smile.

Harry just hates what they’re doing, the whole farce of it all. He knows it’s to protect the band, to protect them and their future, but that doesn’t make it any less hard to walk off with Niall, Liam, and Zayn in one direction and watch Louis’s retreating back, hand uncomfortably grasped in Eleanor’s slender fingers. Harry almost wants to scoff that anyone can believe that forced affection. He tells management this and they repeat the mantra of “it’s for your own good”, that phrase that haunts his dreams and is the constant soundtrack to every moment of his life these days.

———————————————————————————————————————

“I don’t know what you want me to do, Harry!” Louis throws up his hands in exasperation and slumps against the counter in their small hotel room. “You know why we’re doing this, it hurts me just as much as it hurts you!” His blue eyes glitter dangerously, barely concealing the hurt drowning in their depths, suffocated by the very obvious anger.

“Doesn’t seem like it,” Harry mumbles from his place on the floor. The knob of the cupboard digs into his back and he remembers last night, Louis kneading his knuckles into Harry’s spine, whispering I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry into Harry’s ear.

He stares at the tile floor.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Louis’s voice snaps over his head, the sound of it cracking against Harry’s ears and he clenches his eyes tightly, trying to keep the wetness from spilling over his quivering lids.

“Nothing.” Harry stands up and pushes his hands into his pockets. “I’m going to bed.” He turns to leave but Louis reaches over and grabs his wrist in a vice-like grip, thumbnail digging into the pulsing skin of his wrist.

“I said, what the fuck does that mean, Harry?” Louis hisses, his voice dangerously soft behind Harry.

Harry wrenches his wrist out of Louis’s grasp and spins to face him, anger and resentment bubbling up in his throat until he sees white and he hears himself screaming,

“It means I’m sick of this, of you, of everything! You think this is hard for you? All you have to do is walk around like a fucking advertisement for Starbucks, all you have to do is pretend to date a pretty girl. Well, fuck, that sounds so difficult, poor Lou.” Harry’s breathing hard, his nostrils flared, his hands clenched to his sides. He’s towering over Louis, his frame enveloping him, but he feels 10 years old, throwing a temper tantrum, but unable to stop.

“I have to sit and listen to you deny everything I thought I meant to you, hear you make fun of it, like it’s something to be laughed at, and sure, maybe you don’t mean it, but fuck if it doesn’t hurt all the same to hear it.” He forcefully pushes off the counter, purposefully slamming into Louis as he passes.

“People genuinely believe we’re in a relationship,” Harry imitates Louis’s voice, mockingly high-pitched, quavering behind unshed tears dragging against his throat.

“Harry…” Louis reaches out fingers, not daring to touch him, but Harry can tell he’s aching to.

He won’t give Louis the pleasure of placating him again.

“Fuck you, Lou. Fuck you, fuck this, and fuck us,” Harry spits, anger and hurt licking flames up his insides. He turns and stalks out of the kitchen and slams the bedroom door behind him.

One of the small panes of colored glass above the stove falls and shatters on the floor with the force of Harry’s slam. Louis watches it fall, cringes as the shards spray in every direction.

If he was a philosophical kind of guy, Louis would call that pane of glass his heart at that exact moment.

——————————————————————————————————————

Less than 10 minutes after Harry has thrown himself on the bed, letting exactly one tear darken the sheets, he hears the click of the door of the hotel room.

Probably going to be comforted by Eleanor, Harry thinks bitterly. Fine, let him.

He curls up on himself, trying not to recognize the guilt tightening underneath the lingering anger. I have nothing to be guilty about, he tells himself. He doesn’t need to feel guilty for the way Louis’s mouth had dropped open as if he’d been slapped, when Harry swore at him.

The guilt curls red at the corners of his eyes, edging out the white-hot anger. He pushes it down and it just keeps marching through him, like an army intent on taking his dignity. The guilt surges on until all he can see is Louis’s face, flashing red on the inside of his eyelids, his mouth in a small ‘o’ shape and his eyebrows drawn together in hurt. All Harry can think of is Louis’s wavering voice as he reaches trembling fingers to Harry’s arm and Harry feels sick at the way he pulled back.

When was the last time he’d pulled back from Louis’s touch?

Probably not since he’d been a love-struck 16 year old, unsure about his feelings for his band-mate, terrified that Louis would find out.

Fuck, that feels like forever ago.

He lets the guilt reach out greedy fingers until he’s fully suffocating in it.

———————————————————————————————————

The next morning, Harry walks out into an empty hotel room. He wanders into the kitchen, trying not to think about why the room might be empty. There’s a post-it note on the counter. He picks it up.

Out.

That’s all it says in Louis’s crooked handwriting. Harry sighs. Even when they’re fighting, Louis can’t bring himself to leave without telling Harry where he went.

There’s a big scribble at the bottom of the note, like he wrote something and then tried to scrub it out. Harry lifts the note towards the light fixture and his heart stutters to a stop and he lets out a dry sob.

The light shines through the paper and illuminates I love you, the words engraved into the paper, drunkenly, messily, the tip of the I poking a hole through the paper, as if he’d pushed too hard with the pen.

Harry closes his eyes and folds the paper in half and tucks it into his shirt pocket. The words I love you burn through his shirt, right next to his heart. Maybe when he takes off his shirt, the words will be branded, in white, on his chest, a reminder of what he threw away with his words last night.

————————————————————————————————————

The entire day Louis won’t look at him. He won’t sit near him in the car on the way to the venue, he doesn’t touch his wrist in soft encouragement. He ignores Harry during sound-check.

Harry doesn’t blame him. He probably hates himself more than he hates Louis right now. He doesn’t even hate Louis.

Eleanor sits on the side of the stage during sound-check, fingers tapping at the keys of her phone. Harry wonders if she’s oblivious to the clear tension among all 5 boys. Harry had asked Liam if he knew where Louis had spent the night and Liam had just looked pityingly at him, put a soft hand on his shoulder, and walked away. Harry tried not to let the ache in his chest overtake him.

The air is sweltering as the boys pace backstage, the screams of thousands echoing through the small room, growing louder every second. The stifling air settles in Harry’s chest. It wraps around him till he feels like he has an iron band around his lungs, squeezing and gnawing, incessantly tightening in the center of his chest, almost like he’s being compressed in on himself.

He escapes to the tiny bathroom. Yellowed tiles under twitching fingers. He stares at himself in the mirror, willing his breath to relax, concentrating on ignoring the familiar fear that this panic attack will be the one that drives him to give up everything he’s worked for to have this life.

Harry can still make out the purple hollows under his eyes, from his sleepless night, the beige makeup hardly doing its job. His fingers tremble, grasping at the ceramic sink, clenching and unclenching.

What if Louis doesn’t forgive him? What if he’s said the final words? What if his exclamation of fuck us was the snip of scissors destroying the bond between him and the only person he’s ever loved?

What if Louis mistook that fuck you as I don’t love you?

I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it, Harry’s mind chants at him.

A knock sounds at the door. Harry can’t bring himself to turn around and open the door. He slides to the floor, forehead hitting the sink as he falls.

The door opens and cool hands grasp him under his arms and turn him until he’s upright once more. He looks into the blue of Louis’s eyes as the sink digs into the small of Harrys back, once again reminding him of knuckles and whispered apologies.

“Lou”, his voices comes out as a gasp and he grips Louis’s biceps until the skin under his fingers turns white and still Louis doesn’t flinch away.

“Harry, just breathe, you just have to breathe”, Louis’s voice sounds softly into the room, calming Harry.

Sinking into the blue of Louis’s eyes, Harry has the strangest sensation that he doesn’t reside in his body, or this world, that he’s floating above the scene, watching it unfold, watching himself hyperventilate and watching Louis hold into him, fingers digging into his jawbone. Harry can almost feel the way the fingers press and press and press, but it’s muffled, like there’s a glass wall between him and the scene below him.

It feels like secondhand pain.

Louis waits until Harry’s breath has calmed, the ringing in his ears gone, before he presses his warm lips against Harry’s cold ones, bitten raw by his teeth and tasting slightly of blood, metallic and tangy.

Harry barely registers the pressure before Louis is gone, out the door, leaving Harry slumped in the bathroom, lips tingling and heart beating faster than what must be healthy. Harry presses one hand to his chest, thinking of the I love you burned there.

——————————————————————————————————-

They’re off that night. All the boys can feel it. Probably some of the more perceptive fans are picking up on it. Harry cringes to think how many pictures on Twitter and Tumblr there will be of the moment when Harry instinctively looks toward Louis during Gotta Be You, waiting for some indication of his lyric change, but it never comes. Louis doesn’t look at him and Harry can feel his face fall almost a foot. The worst moment is when Harry reaches for Louis during the final bow, his fingers catching the edges of Louis’s shirt, his pinky touching hot skin, before Louis noticeably jerks away and moves to the other side of Niall. Harry swallows past the terrifying lump in his throat.

There’s no post-performance adrenaline. Niall jumps in the air once, notices he’s the only one grinning, and immediately the smile is wiped off his face. His hand brushes Harry’s elbow as they shuffle towards the dressing rooms.

In silence, they change, hanging clothes up, the tension palpable in the room. Niall is looking back and forth between Louis’s rigid back and the tilt of Harry’s neck as he painstakingly folds his pants, purposefully avoiding eye contact with everyone in the room.

One by one they exit, until Harry and Louis are the only ones left. Harry desperately wants to leave, his face prickling with hurt and guilt and something he suspects might be anger and he hates himself for it. But Louis stands between him and the door and he can’t bring himself to walk past Louis and ignore the rush of disappointment he knows he’ll feel when Louis doesn’t turn to him and kiss his hair, praising his performance and telling him how proud he is of him.

“How can you think it doesn’t hurt me too?”

Harry whips his head around as the sound of Louis’s voice fills the room.

“Wh – “, Harry starts but his voice cracks and before he can start over, Louis is speaking again and slowly coming towards Harry.

“Do you think it doesn’t hurt to pretend like you’re not the most important thing in my life? That it doesn’t hurt to make a mockery of the one thing that’s still real to me, even in the midst of all this?” Louis sweeps his arm around the room. Harry’s eyes follow the blur of Louis’s hand and the way the light catches the bracelet he’s wearing there, bought for him by Harry last Christmas.

Louis moves forward slowly until he’s close enough that if Harry just extended his fingers, they would brush against Louis’s trembling lips.

“Why do you think I’m doing this, Harry? For all the Starbucks? The fucking endless shopping trips?” Louis laughs loudly, bitterly, like he’s been destroyed, and the sound of it grates against Harry’s ears. He shuts his eyes, unable to look at the face that he usually can’t go more than a minute without looking at.

Harry feels soft breath hit his face and when he opens his eyes, he’s nose to nose with Louis.

In and out, Harry can feel the breath leave Louis’s mouth and he instinctively licks his lip, watches as Louis’s eyes flicker to his lips and then back again, cold blue staring into bottomless green.

“I love you, Harry. That’s why I’m doing this.”

Louis takes a step back, turns, and walks out of the room quickly.

It’s another 20 minutes before Harry can slow his breath and calm the frantic beat of his heart.

————————————————————————————————————

Louis walks straight into the hotel room, bypasses the kitchen, into the bedroom and shuts the door, firmly clicking it behind him.

Harry stares at the wood of the door. He feels like its mocking him, a face morphing out of the wood, openly gloating over Harry’s misery.

Did you think he’d forgive you? After what you said? Voices run together in Harry’s head as he blindly makes his way to the couch.

Admit it. You thought he would forgive you, a small voice whispers.

———————————————————————————————————-

Harry sits in the back of the church. Niall stands by the altar, his hand on Louis’s elbow, that ever protective gesture that the bright boy always knows how to use. The straight line of Louis’s back reminds Harry of what he gave up so many years ago.

He fists his hands into his trousers. The familiar ache in his chest intensifies. He should be used to this feeling. After all, it was him who yelled fuck us, that cold night in just another hotel room, in just another nameless city, another fight that somehow turned into something bigger than Harry had ever imagined it could be.

The doors at the back of the church creak open and Harry resolutely stares forward as a blushing Eleanor glides by, the white wisp of her veil clouding the edges of Harry’s vision.

“If anyone feels this couple should not be united in Holy Matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

This is it, Harry thinks. This is his chance and if he fucks it up now, Louis is lost forever.

Harry moves to stand. He can’t move. His feet are glued to the floor. His arms are tied to his seat. He tries to speak, but his voice sounds like it’s drifting through fog, like someone has thrown a blanket over his head. The ceremony is continuing without him, he’s lost his chance.

He tries to scream, the sound ripping past his throat, but no sound comes out and he screams and screams and screams and is ignored and ignored and ignored and then he’s waking up and his neck hurts from lying on the couch and the clock says 6:37 AM, red numbers burning into his vision.

Harry bolts up and is outside the bedroom door in seconds, his hand on the door knob before he even realizes what he’s doing.

He opens it a crack and he can see Louis’s form under the covers, the pale, weak light streaming in and illuminating his hair, the only part of him visible.

“Lou?” Harry tiptoes over to the bed, his feet barely making a sound against the carpet.

He touches his fingers to Louis’s bare shoulder and shivers as he watches goose bumps erupt on the skin. He lifts the sheets and slides in next to Louis, face pressed into the back of Louis’s neck.

In his sleep, Louis turns over so he’s facing Harry, his cool breath hitting Harry’s face, intoxicating Harry with the familiar scent of him, toothpaste and Yorkshire tea and something indefinably Louis.

Harry traces the tips of his fingers down Louis’s throat, feeling the hum of his deep breaths, and then strokes back up again, gently cupping his jawbone and touching the tip of his pointer finger to the delicate skin at the outside corner of Louis’s shut eye.

“Haz. What are you doing?” Louis’s voice mumbles out, his eyes still closed.

A thrill goes through Harry at the sound of his name slipping out of Louis. He doesn’t answer and watches as Louis’s eyes slowly open, revealing bleary and soft blue.

Harry revels in the instinctual love in Louis’s eyes before he remembers he’s mad at Harry. His face closes off, but he doesn’t move away from Harry’s touch.

They’ve always talked with their eyes. Entire conversations. In Louis’s eyes, Harry can see sadness and hurt but that love is always there. When Louis looks at him, Harry feels wide open in the best way possible, as if Louis just looks and looks and takes and takes, but never more than Harry can give. Louis always understands Harry’s limits, even if Harry himself doesn’t understand. Louis understands Harry’s wants, needs, his everything.

“I’m sorry…” Harry breathes out, the quietest of whispers, not wanting to break the fragile silence, but feeling an overwhelming need to fix whatever he’s fucked up.

“I’m sorry I said those things, I’m sorry I don’t appreciate everything you do for me, I’m sorry I’m not big enough to love you the way you deserve.” Harry watches Louis’s eyelids tremble but the blue remains fixed on him and he feels like that’s the only thing that lets him continue

“I want us to be able to hold hands in public, and I want to stand on top of the Empire State Building and scream that I love you so loud even our mums back home can hear it. I want to tell a magazine everything I love about you, the way your feet smell, and the exact way you look when you wake up in the morning, and I want to be able to tell them how I feel every time I look at you.”

Louis’s gaze doesn’t waver from Harry’s face.

“But I understand. I get it, I get that we can’t right now and so I’m sorry, I’m just really sorry.”

He can’t continue as tears leak out of his eyes and his sentence trails off into a wet hiccup. Louis’s fingers emerge from the sheets, his thumb brushing a tear collecting in Harry’s cupid bow, the little dent on his upper lip where Louis’s finger fits perfectly, as if Harry’s lip was moulded by him. He touches his thumb to his own lips, tasting Harry’s salty tears.

“Harry, Hazza, sweetheart”, Louis croons into the darkness and Harry’s head falls forward into the hollow of Louis’s collarbone and Louis shifts to put his arms around Harry.

“I love you, I love you, I love you”, Louis chants in Harry’s ear until the tears have subsided.

“Hazza-baby, look at me”, Louis whispers in his ear and Harry moves his head to Louis’s pillow, looking into Louis’s eyes.

The dim light makes Louis’s eyes recede until all Harry can see is blue shining from dark depths, flecks of gold catching the light and throwing it back. A stripe of pale sunshine falls across his neck and Harry traces a fingernail down its edge.

“You know when we got put together and I jumped into your arms?” Louis softly asks and Harry nods.

“That was instinct. All I was feeling was total and complete trust of the kid with the big eyes and crazy-scientist hair.”

Harry smiles softly and pokes Louis’s cheek with his finger.

Louis closes his eyes and continues.

“Ever since then, whenever I feel like I’m falling, I know you’re there to catch me.”

“Always”, Harry breathes.

“So it doesn’t matter when they fly Eleanor out. It doesn’t matter when I read your name in another headline, linked to another 32 year old, selling her story. It doesn’t matter that I can’t kiss you on stage, like I always want to.”

Harry’s eyes fill with tears again, because he’s pretty sure he knows what’s coming.

“It doesn’t matter, because whatever happens, we’re real and nothing can ever change that”, he finishes for Louis.

“Yeah.” Louis’s eyes open and he smiles fondly down at Harry. “Whatever happens, I love you, Hazza, and no matter how many frappucinos I have to drink, nothing will make me forget that.”

A tear drips down Harry’s nose and he makes an embarrassing noise, voice choked with tears.

He can’t speak. He moves a few inches closer until his lips touch Louis’s in the softest whisper of a kiss and he presses his hand into the warm skin on Louis’s back, right above his waistband. Louis’s hand presses against Harry’s chest and Harry remembers I love you burned into the skin above his heart.

“I love you”, he mumbles against Louis’s lips.

Louis smiles against his lips.

“I know.”


End file.
